Pulse
by dnofsunshine
Summary: Recovery doesn't come easy for the Takaishida family. But as long as the hearts of two young boys still beat, Natsuko and Hiroaki are willing to try. A collection of Takaishida-focused stories set after the divorce. Dedicated to a few authors listed inside.
1. Hope

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Digimon. But my 19th birthday is in two months~

 **a/n:** First of all, I want to dedicate this collection to **ToastyToaster22, LILFOC, adorkable-digidestined,** and **ittybittymattycommittee.** Idk if you guys know it, but you guys are awesome af. Thank you for existing and being members of this site.

* * *

 **setting:** 1995, pre-Adventure.

* * *

 **01 || Hope**

Natsuko isn't going to lie. She misses Hiroaki. She misses him greatly.

There are nights where she lies in her bed, wide awake, and she's angry at him. Angry because of all the things she did wrong, things that _they_ did wrong, and because it doesn't seem like they tried hard enough. Separating seemed like the best idea at the time—it's what the logical part of her brain says. They weren't happy. And she knows her sons could see it, _feel it,_ as well. It's wrong of her and Hiroaki to force them to watch their family fall apart even more.

The part of her brain that's fueled solely by emotion tells her that it was a stupid decision. Aren't marriages supposed to be life-long? How did they even end up unhappy in the first place? She doesn't even remember how it all started, and that's what hurts the most. But it's easier to be pissed at him, for her to pick out all of his mistakes; than it is to admit how empty she feels inside because of his absence.

But the clock ticks and ticks, turning seconds into minutes, and minutes into hours. At some point, her anger fades to lonely. It always does. She's hurt and she misses him and it's completely ridiculous, but she wants the one person who caused this ache in her chest to come back so it will go away. When her fingers grip the empty covers beside her, she is reaching for echoes of their children's laughter; for faraway whispers of love and warmth in his embrace; for the ghost of her ex-husband's smile; and she wonders, every night, how long the image of her broken family will haunt her.

She hates feeling this way. She needs to cut these thoughts off; drown them out. Needs to be strong for Takeru. But she's young—she's almost twenty-eight. And she does still love Hiroaki. How is she supposed to raise their youngest without him by her side? And what about Yamato? Will she even get to watch him grow, or will she always be too far? She thinks briefly of calling him, of giving in, but she dismisses the idea immediately because they've already made their decision. She can't hold on like this.

Her alarm clock blinks 1:34 a.m. She sits up in her bed, using the back of her hand to wipe stray tears away with more force than necessary. Draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. She knows she works at nine and will have to get up two hours before that to get her youngest son ready for the day. But she's not going to sleep anytime soon.

Natsuko swings her legs over the side of her bed. Her head aches faintly and she can still feel the pressure of tears, but she pushes herself up anyway. It's dark, but her eyes have long ago adjusted to it, so she slips through her door easily. Peeks in through Takeru's bedroom door and sees him cuddled up in the corner of his small bed.

His blanket is by his feet, and automatic instinct is to fix it. She walks over to him, pulls it over his shoulders, and tucks it in tight. Ghosts his forehead with a kiss. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake.

Her feet then carry her to the kitchen. She's thirsty and craves tea, but the whistle from the kettle would be too loud. Settles for a glass of water from the tap instead. Then she's padding quietly toward the small sofa in the front room and feels around for the remote. She has a tendency to leave on the floor or inside the couch—

Ah. Yep. She pulls out from under the cushion and clicks the power button. Turns the volume down until it's two notches away from mute so she won't wake Takeru, and uses the light from the screen to search for a movie. Most of them are Hiroaki's, and she pushes down the wave of sorrow that threatens to build itself a home in her heart. She needs to get her mind off of him.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, she decides on a film in French. Pops it in the VCR and the static screen turns black for several seconds. Remembers that she has to rewind the tape, which takes a little bit.

While she waits, she pulls the afghan crochet blanket from over the top of the sofa and wraps herself in it. Then the tape clicks and the title screen pops up, and Natsuko takes a small sip of her water.

For the first twenty minutes, she's entirely focused on the movie. It's a crime film, and she's always been a sucker for thrillers. She's a journalist (although she's not the best, she admits), so it's easy for her to slip into anything that resembles a good case. But her mind keeps wandering back to toothy, young grins; to strong arms enveloping her; to soft, loving caresses and childlike giggles; and all the sudden, the screen is blurry and her cheeks are hot and damp.

She jumps when she hears a soft whisper that sounds strangely like "mom."

Wipes her eyes furiously when she notices that her four-year-old is standing across the room, rubbing his face tiredly. "What are you doing up, baby?"

"You're up," he says groggily and starts to walk toward her.

She's on her feet as he stumbles and makes it to him in time before he falls. Wonders briefly if he is sleepwalking, but before she can even begin to guide him back to his bed, Takeru whispers, "Why are you in here, Mama? Did you have a bad dream?"

"No," she says, trying to smile. But she isn't doing a good job. Inwardly takes a cleansing breath, and continues, "It's late, baby. You need your sleep."

He shakes his head. Then sleepy eyes land on the television (she hasn't paused the movie yet), and before she can blink, he is crawling onto the couch.

"Takeru, no," she says, grabbing small hands and coaxing them to release her blanket. She scoops him up, and his arms instinctively wrap around her neck. He frowns at her. Pouts, more like. In the dim glow of the tv, she can see that his eyes are webbed. Probably mirroring her own, she thinks. "C'mon, let's—"

Tiny fingers grab her cheek. "You're crying, Mama."

Damn it. All of the sudden she wants to sob. She knows it's not going to solve anything, but her nose burns and her eyes are stinging once again. She clears her throat and blinks several times to dispel the sensation and says in a voice that breaks: "I'm gonna put you back to sleep, ok, Takeru?"

"Are you going back to sleep?"

She hesitates. Purses her lips into a thin line. "Yes."

"Liar," he accuses, still pouting. "Mama, I wanna sit out here with you."

"You can't."

"But _you_ are!"

Part of her thinks this is going to turn into a tantrum. Her mother instinct tells her that it doesn't matter if he wants to stay up, he shouldn't. But she's too exhausted, physically and emotionally, and the last thing she wants is to upset him. He's only four, and she knows he won't understand her insomnia, nor does he understand why their family is like this, but she also knows that deep inside, Takeru feels the same hurt she does.

She can tell, even when his lips curl into a smile. Even when laughter spews from his mouth. Even when he is running around and playing, she knows that he cries. He misses his dad, and he misses Yamato. Just like she does.

She sighs after a moment and resolves to sit on the couch once again. Takeru shifts in her lap and automatically reaches for the blanket she has been using. She's half-sitting on it, though, and he doesn't possess the strength to pull it free, and so she helps him. A tiny giggle erupts from her lips when she sees the frustrated face he makes.

"They're talking weird," he murmurs quietly when they're both comfortable and wrapped up. Her arms are crossed over his chest and her chin is resting on his head.

"It's in another language," she explains just as quietly.

"What's that mean?"

"Some people don't speak the way we do." She pauses as she realizes he's looking up at her, blue eyes tired but curious. Their noses are almost touching. "They just have a different way of communicating."

"How are you gonna watch it, if they're talking different?"

"I happen to know how to talk the way they do."

"Really?" His face suddenly becomes excited. "That's cool, Mama. You're so smart."

She laughs and runs a hand through his hair. It's messy and due for a brush, she notices absently before focusing her attention back on the screen. "If you think so, baby."

"What're they saying?" Takeru asks and mirrors her actions.

"They're stuck in an elevator."

His head tilts to the side like he's confused but he doesn't ask another question. Says, instead, "I want to talk like that, Mama. So I can know what they're saying."

"You know," she begins, "you visited your grandparents a few years back. They spoke French."

"French?" He blinks, tiny eyebrows quirking upward.

"That's the language they're speaking. We speak Japanese, and they speak French."

"I wanna talk French, Mama."

His smile is wide and innocently happy. Natsuko temporarily forgets that it's well past two in the morning. She can't help but grin back at him. "I can teach you."

"Really?"

"Yes, I can."

"Oh, how _cool._ "

She laughs again, and it's full and rich. Tightens her hold on her youngest baby and brushes her lips against his hair. The next ten minutes are full of Takeru asking questions, about what means what, and Natsuko doesn't hesitate to answer each one, repeating phrases fluently while Takeru stumbles over almost every word. But it isn't long before fatigue catches up with him, and he falls asleep forty-five minutes before the movie finishes up.

She doesn't bother rewinding the tape again. Leaves it in the VCR, shuts the television off, and curls up with her child in her arms. She still misses Yamato. She still misses Hiroaki.

But she has Takeru with her. And that gives her hope.


	2. Distant

**a/n:** Here you go, **Green Spaghetti.** A little dose of Hiroaki. :) But uhhh, I have never written in Hiroaki's perspective. Like, ever. So I'm really, really scared that I butchered him. I'm not sure if I should prepare myself for rotten tomatoes.

* * *

 **setting:** late 1995, pre-Adventure

* * *

 **02 || Distant**

Yamato hasn't talked to Hiroaki in two days.

It's all one-shouldered shrugs and low hums and eye rolls. Seeing this in a teenager is normal, one of Hiroaki's co-workers tells him. Except Yamato is only eight—he's supposed to be the opposite, right? A bundle of smiles and giggles and childish innocence: that's what eight-year-old are. They radiate happiness and joy and naivete.

 _He used to be like that,_ Hiroaki thinks to himself. But his brain immediately adds that that was when he was with Takeru. That was before all of the fights. Before the split. Before he and Natsuko separated the two boys. Although it's easier to place the blame on Yamato's mother, he simply cannot bring himself to do it. It takes two people to sign a divorce paper.

So, really, this falls back on him as well—and he feels his stomach twist and churn as he thinks of the damage he has done. Hates that he doesn't even know what's going through his oldest son's head. Is he angry at his father? Or is he upset? A mixture of the two? He isn't sure.

He turns around in his office chair, rubbing his forehead. He needs a cigarette.

His legs push him upward without a second thought. One of his co-workers raises her eyebrows in confusion, and he digs into his coat pocket. Waves the pack of cigarettes as an explanation and says gruffly, "I'll be right back."

She nods and her eyes return to her computer screen. He can hear her clicking her mouse and tapping the keys as he turns his back and steps into the hallway that's designated for smoking. Closes the door behind him.

Places the cancer stick between his lips. Flicks the lighter. It's become more of a routine, the back of his mind notices. He's been an on and off smoker for a while now, but his smoke breaks are becoming more frequent now that his wife— _ex-wife—_ isn't here to tell him how unhealthy the habit is. It's become his best stress-reliever.

He takes a drag. A long one. Watches the smoke follow his breath as he exhales. Isn't going to think about Natsuko right now.

His eyes fall on the window at the end of the hall. The dark hues of the sky tell him that it's late, and he mentally curses. He had promised Yamato he'd be home before nine, and he doesn't even know what time it is. Technically, he was only supposed to stay at the station until eight. Guilt pricks at his insides.

He finishes the cigarette within a couple minutes. Heads back inside to grab his coat.

Once again, his co-worker—Naomi—peeks her head up. She is no longer alone, he realizes; but he doesn't care enough to focus on the face of the person who is now seated next to her. A glance at the clock tells him it's already well past nine. Another curse slips past his lips.

"I've got to get going," he explains shortly, hastily saving his work for tomorrow. After a series of rapid clicks, his computer screen turns blue, indicating that it's shutting down. He doesn't wait for it to turn off completely. "See you tomorrow," he adds quickly before shrugging his coat on and racing out the door, ignoring their baffled expressions.

He speeds on the way home. Doesn't get caught. It takes a little less than twenty minutes.

When he walks in the door of the flat, all of the lights are off except for the one in the kitchen (which is relatively messy and is due for a cleaning). Remembers that Yamato is still young, and it's nearing ten-thirty. He's most likely asleep. He hangs his coat up, sets his keys on the counter. His hand ghosts over the light switch, but before he flips it, his eyes catch a glimpse of fluffy blond hair.

He turns. Yamato is sitting at the table with his head buried in his arms. Asleep indeed. Hiroaki pauses, and as he listens closely, he can hear soft snores emitting from the young boy.

He frowns. Whispers his son's name. There's no response. Hiroaki heaves a low sigh.

As carefully as he can, he slides his hands underneath the blond's arms and hauls him upward. He's getting big, a part of his mind thinks as he rests a hand on the small of his back to steady him. Yamato's arms dangle limply over Hiroaki's shoulders, with his forehead nestled into his collarbone.

When he makes to his son's bedroom, he places him on the shikibuton. Reaches for the blanket on the other side and fixes it so it's covering Yamato's body.

He must have been a little rough because, after a few seconds, Yamato's eyelids are fluttering. "D-Dad…?"

His smile is apologetic. "Hi."

He wants to say he's sorry for being late, but Yamato just frowns at him, glares, turns so his back is facing him, and huddles into the corner of his bed.

He's stunned, for a few seconds. And then he feels hurt. But he knows Yamato has every right to be mad.

So he sighs again. Draws himself up to his full height so he can work on those dishes in the kitchen. "Good night, son."

Yamato doesn't reply.

* * *

Hiroaki makes sure to wear a watch to work. Constantly checks the time. It's been three days now, and still, Yamato has barely said a word to him. So he sets an alarm on his watch to make sure he leaves the station in time. Promises his son he'll get home by supper.

But it scrapes against his wrist, and so he takes it off for a few minutes. Goes outside for a smoke. He misses the alarm by a few minutes and forgets to put the watch back on. Before he knows it, it's past eight.

" _Shit_."

He rushes home again, going ten over the speed limit, and it only takes twenty minutes.

Yamato is awake this time, he notices upon opening the door. He's sitting at the table with a notebook in front of him. But when their eyes meet, the young boy's gaze quickly darts elsewhere. A frown mares his face. Small hands shove a bowl of steamed rice in his direction.

"Here."

Before Hiroaki can reply, he stands, closes his notebook, and heads to his bedroom.

Hiroaki thinks he sees tears.

* * *

It's day four. The most he's gotten out of Yamato are clipped, one-worded replies, shrugs, and grunts. Hiroaki greets him good morning, and he doesn't get a response.

He offers to make him breakfast, but Yamato says he has already eaten.

He takes him to school, and the ride is silent. Tells him he goes to work at noon and will be back by eight. Yamato only nods without looking at him. Steadies his backpack onto his shoulders. Slams the van's door shut.

Hiroaki isn't back by eight.

* * *

Day five. The program on his co-worker's computer had malfunctioned, and Hiroaki had to figure out how to recover the footage they had lost before he could go home. He ends up being a few minutes late.

So he speeds. And it usually only takes twenty minutes.

Except five minutes into the drive, he sees red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. A string of profanity leaves his lips immediately, but signals his blinker, slows down, and pulls over to the side of the road.

The officer is forgiving, luckily. He gets off with a warning. But it adds fifteen minutes to his drive, and now he's going five under the speed limit because he thinks the cop is following him.

He arrives at nine-thirty-four, and all of the lights are on. It's strange, and when he walks through the kitchen, he doesn't see his son. He peeps into Yamato's bedroom, but there's no sign of him there, either. Checks his own bedroom and sees that some of his drawers are open and have been emptied out onto the floor. Still no Yamato.

"Yamato?" he calls out, feeling his heart thump in his chest. Where could he be?

A loud clatter sounds from the bathroom, and Hiroaki doesn't hesitate. He slips through the door easily, and Yamato whirls around, hiding both hands behind his back as he looks up at his father with wide eyes.

Hiroaki's gaze immediately scans the room. The mirror-cabinet above the sink is open and tubes of toothpaste have fallen into it. There are a couple of hand towels scattered on the floor, next to a heap of dirty laundry. Hiroaki goes on high alert when he sees a line of red smeared across the porcelain sink.

"Yamato, what's wrong? Did you get hurt?"

He looks shocked, for a brief moment. But then his eyes slide to the floor and he pushes himself back further against the wall. "It's nothing. I'm taking care of it."

"Let me see it."

"No. I said I'm taking care of it."

He attempts to maneuver around Hiroaki, but the man sidesteps him, blocking his path. He kneels down so that they are eye-level. "Let me take a look."

"I don't need your help," he spits out, and his tone is so angry and venomous that Hiroaki can only blink for a moment, but he recovers in time to stop his son from trying to escape once again.

He gently grabs one of Yamato's arms and pulls it out from behind his back. There's toilet paper wrapped around his thumb, spotted heavily with blood. Yamato tries to yank away, but Hiroaki's grip is strong as he cautiously removes the tissue and studies his hand.

It's small, maybe a few centimeters long; but it's deep enough to pierce through his thumbnail. Blood is rolling down the meat of his hand and he hurries to wipe it up. Tries to be more careful when he sees Yamato grimace.

"You got yourself good, didn't you?" He chuckles slightly, trying to make a joke out of it, to lighten the mood, but Yamato is unamused. His face twists with a frown.

"I was just trying to cook dinner," he grumbles. "You weren't here to help, and you said you would be. So I started by myself."

That stings. Hiroaki feels his heart plummet into his stomach. He opens his mouth, but there's no audio.

He wants to say he's trying. He wants to apologize. But there's nothing he can say that will erase the hurt and rage that crosses his oldest son's features. There's nothing he can say to make this easier. An eight-year-old doesn't need empty promises. He needs proof; needs to see actions, not words.

An eight-year-old needs his mother. Needs his brother. But all he has is a dad who can't even come home on time.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

"We only had two band-aids left." It comes out as an angry whisper. "I put them on wrong and had to throw them out."

Hiroaki sighs, but not because he's frustrated at Yamato. He's frustrated with himself. Pinches the bridge of his nose. He grabs more toilet paper and tosses the bloodies pieces in the trash bin. Guides Yamato back to the sink and turns on the tap, letting the water run over his son's wound.

Yamato winces, but he doesn't say anything for a few minutes. Just watches with webbed eyes as Hiroaki grabs a clean towel and dabs his hand dry before wrapping his thumb in a layer of toilet paper. "Keep some pressure on this, ok? We're gonna go get some more band-aids."

Did they have any kind of antibiotics? He looks around, but he doesn't find it. Nor does he see anything that resembles antiseptic. He curses under his breath, wondering how he could be so unprepared. He's got a child at home, and he barely has anything for first-aid? What kind of a father is he?

He hurries to grab Yamato's coat and helps thread his oldest boy's arms through it. It's a little big on him, he realizes instantly. He seems so small. For a moment, he thinks he sees Takeru standing in front of him, just because of how little he is, and he has to physically shake his head to get that image to fade. He can't choke on that right now.

They leave in a matter of minutes. Hiroaki barely notices that they haven't shut off all the lights; he's too worried to care. There's a convenience store only a few blocks away, and since the van had been running about ten minutes earlier, it doesn't take long to warm back up.

"C'mon," he says as he parks, killing the engine and unbuckling without hesitation. Hurries to the passenger side to help Yamato out, but the blond ignores his outstretched hand and slips out without help.

They don't stay for long. Yamato has stopped bleeding, but Hiroaki's sure that if he jostles it too much, the wound will reopen. So they hurry, and when they make it back to the car, he turns on the overhead light and inspects his kid's thumb once again.

"This is gonna sting," he says quietly and receives another nod in response. Yamato hisses softly as his dad presses the alcohol wipe on his cut and his hand jerks slightly, but he doesn't say another word. Not even as Hiroaki applies the antibiotic cream. Or the band-aid. He just stares, and Hiroaki can't take it anymore.

"Yamato."

"Hmm?"

"Why won't you talk to me?"

He faces the window. Because of the light, Hiroaki can see the boy's reflection. His eyes are red. "You said you'd be home."

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry."

"Most kids' dads are home by the time the sun goes down," Yamato mutters. "Most kids' dads are there to help with their homework. Most kids' dads are there to watch them and help them cook so they don't cut their fingers."

He sighs. "I'm sorry, Yamato."

"Are you?" He turns around to face him this time, and there are tears in his eyes. "I didn't care at first, you know. But then you kept promising, and you didn't _keep_ those promises! And it makes me think that maybe… I'm not important enough. Maybe Mom wasn't important enough. Maybe Takeru wasn't important enough. Maybe you don't even _care._ "

Instinct kicks in. Hiroaki leans over and wraps his arms around Yamato so tightly that he squeaks in surprise. He can feel his oldest shaking, and moments later, he hears a sob. This makes him squeeze harder, cradling Yamato's head with his hand.

"Don't you ever think that," he murmurs into Yamato's hair. "Don't think that I don't care. I will _always_ care."

Instantly, Yamato breaks. He cries openly on his shoulder. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers dig into Hiroaki's jacket, and it all just comes out. He cries and cries. He trembles. Hiroaki has to blink back his own tears.

Because it hurts. It hurts to see his son in this much pain, and it hurts because he is the culprit. He feels so heavy on the inside, like there are stones replacing his heart, his lungs, his stomach. He holds Yamato anyway. Lets him release it all. Lets him talk.

"—and I… I made a p-promise to Takeru, I said I'd be back. I—I knew I couldn't keep it, and I… I can't help but th-think is… is he as angry at me as I am at you for breaking that promise? Does he think I don't care? It just… It _hurts_ , dad. I know you have to work, but why do you have to work _all the time?_ Don't… don't you have time for me?"

He sniffles, pulling back so he can wipe his nose on the sleeve of his own jacket. His other hand remains fisted in his father's coat, and then a hiccup escapes him. Once again, his child looks so small: pink in the face, quivering, half wrapped up in his dad's arms. It's a heartbreaking image.

"I'm so sorry, Yamato," he breathes out when he finally finds his voice. Doesn't let go. "I'm sorry I hurt you like this. I want to be home more often. I want you and Takeru to see each other. I—" He exhales softly, offering another squeeze. "Things are just… complicated… right now. I'm trying to make it work."

Yamato hiccups again. "...will you be home tomorrow?"

"I'm off tomorrow."

"Seriously?"

He releases a laugh that's way too shaky to be considered a laugh. "Yeah."

The eight-year-old wipes at his face, pulling back once again. He looks at Hiroaki with eyes that are slightly doubtful. "So… do you think we could visit Takeru and Mom?"

A pause. He's been trying not to think about it. There's an icy feeling in his stomach that just builds and builds each time Takeru and Natsuko cross his mind. So he's worked. He's worked and worked and worked, trying to get it to fade; to melt.

But as he gazes as Yamato, who is so broken and vulnerable in his arms, he realizes that all he has done is make it expand. He'll have to call Natsuko. He's not sure what her plans are.

"I'll see what we can do."

Yamato nods slowly. Sniffles again. Seconds later, Hiroaki hears a loud grumble, and all the sudden a blush graces the blond's face. Hiroaki's reminded that it's really late, and his son had said he was cooking when he cut his finger. He hasn't eaten yet.

 _God, it's past ten and this kid hasn't eaten yet._

"Let's grab something to eat on the way home, ok?" he says before Yamato can speak.

"...I was making food earlier," he mumbles after a time.

"Well, I'm pretty sure the dishes you were using need to be washed since you cut your finger open. And please," he adds with a guilty undertone as he looks at Yamato's thumb, "don't use any sharp objects when I'm not there."

Yamato fumbles with his band-aid, eyes downcast. "Ok."

There's another pause as his stomach rumbles again. Hiroaki chuckles and reaches into the bag that the cashier had put all of his groceries in and when he pulls his hand out, Yamato blinks up at him, genuinely confused.

"Where did you get that?"

Hiroaki tosses the candy bar in the boy's lap and shrugs. "I snagged it for you when you weren't looking. Come on, buddy. I know it's your favorite."

It's so small he almost misses it. But it's definitely there. The corners of Yamato's mouth twitch and his eyes crinkle just a little. It's the first smile Hiroaki has seen in over a week.

The ice in his stomach is finally thawing.


	3. Snap

**a/n:** I tried to post this a few days ago, but for some reason, it wouldn't register that I added a new chapter? Wtf? It did the same thing for ch 20 of HoM. Strange.

I kind of wrote this in only a few hours, so it's a little choppy, but hey, I'm hoping it'll be alright. Thank you all for reading! (Also, fair warning: I try to stay away from using a lot of Japanese honorifics considering I don't know a lot about them, so hopefully, I used them right in this? Maybe? If I messed up, please let me know.)

* * *

 **setting:** 1997, pre-Adventure

* * *

 **03 || Snap**

"Yes. No, no. I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you."

Natsuko sets the phone back in its cradle and has to suppress a sigh. Pinches the bridge of her nose. This day was going so well, too. She's been extremely motivated to get her work done. She's only been at work since eight, and so far, she's completed a few interviews, finished all of her notes, and is about one-hundred words away from reaching her assigned word count. She'd been planning to finish it within the hour so she can send to her editor for fact-checking, but it seems Takeru's school has other plans.

A fight. Her son, her Takeru, her baby boy, had started a fight.

She bites her lip before deciding to stand. Doesn't want to believe it. Starts to organize the notes that are spread haphazardly on her desk. Puts her pen back in its holder and looks up at her computer, which she had been typing on just moments before she was told she had a call.

"Is there something wrong, Takaishi-san?"

She swallows nervously as she looks up and meets her boss's mildly concerned, confused gaze. His eyebrows are raised. "Ah, yes. I—" She stops, unsure of what to say. "It's my son. He's in trouble at school, and they're sending him home—"

He nods slowly. "There isn't anyone who can go get him?"

"No, it's… it's just him and me," Natsuko answers stiffly. Quietly. He's aware she's divorced, she knows. She's been here long enough for it to slip out. But that doesn't make it any less hard for her to admit out loud—especially now that a few of her co-workers staring at the two of them in silent curiosity. "I know that it's barely noon, but—"

To her surprise, a gentle smile graces his features. "It's quite alright, Takaishi-san. I've been monitoring your work. You've done a lot." His eyes flicker to his watch before he looks back up at her. "Go ahead and do what you need to do. Just make sure you have that paperwork on my desk by this time tomorrow, ok?"

Relief floods through her and she smiles gratefully at him. Instinct tells her to reach out to shake his hand, but she soon remembers to bow and murmurs her thanks. Shuts her computer down. Reaches under her desk for her purse. Offers a quick, soft smile to the other journalists who are still staring at her in mild interest, and some of them promptly look away. One of them returns her gesture and waves, and Natsuko hurries out of the office without a second thought.

It only takes her a few minutes to get to her car. And once she starts it up, she leans back into the seat, rubbing her temples. Takes a few moments to allow herself to calm down.

But she can't. She can't get the idea wrapped around her head that Takeru took part in a fight—a _physical_ fight, supposedly with punches and kicks—with one of his peers. Takeru is not a violent child. He's had his tantrums, sure (what six-year-old doesn't?), but never has he _hit_ another kid, let alone play the instigator. There has to be something that the principal isn't telling her.

She sighs and switches into reverse so she can pull out of her parking spot and make her way to Takeru's school. She supposes she'll find out once she gets there.

Traffic isn't that bad, so it's only a fifteen-minute drive. It seems longer than that, though, because her stomach is clenching and unclenching with worry the entire time. Is Takeru injured? If so, how badly? When she pulls up to the elementary school her son is enrolled in, she has to draw in a deep breath so she doesn't explode.

 _If some other kid put their goddamn hands on_ my _son…_ flits through her head as she opens her car door and slides out of the driver's seat. Traverses the schoolyard at a pace that's probably too fast to deem calm and collected.

The moment she enters the school's office, her heart throbs. Takeru's sitting in a chair opposite of the secretary's desk, head dropped low, staring moodily at the floor. It looks like they've given him an ice pack, but he doesn't seem interested in using it. Toys with its edges instead. She can't see his expression.

Her feet take her to him without hesitation and she whispers his name. Takeru doesn't seem to notice until she's placing a finger under his chin so that he's returning her gaze.

Neither of them speak as she studies him. His eyes are red-webbed and glossy with tears. There's a cut on his lip that is caked with dried blood and a bruise forming on his left cheek. A band-aid is wrapped around his index finger, just above his knuckle. Anger flares up in her chest.

Someone behind her clears their throat. She turns, keeping her movements slow just so she has enough time to swallow the curse that so desperately wants to crawl out of her throat. Blinks back tears of rage.

The first thing she notices is that there's another woman standing about six feet away, looking decidedly pissed. She's standing protectively in front of a brown-haired boy that's a little taller than Takeru. Natsuko assumes he is the woman's son. The third person she sees is the principal.

"I'm glad you could come on such short notice," she says with a stiff smile. Her words are far from welcoming. "Let's talk in my office, shall we?"

Natsuko nods, frowning, and doesn't hesitate to slip her hand into Takeru's. He slides out of the chair silently, still keeping his eyes on the floor as they walk into another room.

The conversation is brief. According to the information the principal received from their teacher, Takeru was the one to throw the first punch. Takeru doesn't deny or confirm this fact; just sits with his hands in his lap, picking at the ice pack again. Natsuko tries to coax him to press it against his cheek, but he never complies. It's warm enough by now that it doesn't offer much help, she realizes.

The other boy's—Hirokazu is his name—mother doesn't seem all that interested in talking. Natsuko herself stays quiet because if she speaks, it probably isn't going to be something nice. Every time she glances at Takeru's face, the rage in her chest builds.

It's decided that both boys are on a three-day suspension. Natsuko sees out of the corner of her eye that Takeru is shaking—a sign that he's close to tears. She extends a hand and squeezes one of his shoulders gently. He still doesn't look up at her.

"You can keep those ice packs for a few days, ok, kids?" the principal says, kindly this time. Except her smile still seems false; Natsuko can see it in her eyes. "Just remember to bring them back Monday."

Takeru nods silently and the other child mumbles a clipped "ok" under his breath. When they exit her office, Natsuko grabs Takeru's hand once again and they make their way outside. Starts to guide him toward her car.

"I'm sorry, Mom," she hears somewhere to her left. It's Hirokazu.

"Don't be," the woman says. "It wasn't your fault."

Beside Natsuko, Takeru releases a quiet sob. She stops in her tracks, unable to ignore her anger for another moment. She releases her son's hand and twirls around. "Excuse me?"

The woman looks baffled for a second. Then she frowns. "What?"

"Are you saying that this was solely _my_ son's fault?"

The other boy's mother crosses her arms over her chest. "Their teacher even said your kid threw the first punch."

She hates the way she says it. _Your kid._ Like he's not even a child. Like he's a pest. Like he's somehow below her. She doesn't like that Takeru participated in a fight. But doesn't she see that both boys have marks on them? They're both just _children_ —they're still learning to channel their emotions and it seems like no one bothered even explain to them that violence isn't the answer. Just jumped straight to the punishment. Hirokazu's mother doesn't need to teach them that one was right while the other was wrong.

She fixes a glare on her, clenching her fists. "I'm not blaming your son. Don't blame mine."

"You're kidding me, right? It probably wouldn't have happened if you taught him to control himself."

In retrospect, what Natsuko did was wrong. But she's too pissed to care. Just stares lividly as the other woman holds her now pinkened cheek, eyes popped wide with shock. Natsuko lowers her hand, seething, and she hisses, "Don't you _ever_ talk about Takeru like that again."

She marches away without even giving her a chance to reply. Tugs on Takeru's wrist—not hard enough to hurt him but enough to get his attention—and continues her trek to her vehicle.

Takeru stops at the curb. He slips his hand out of hers. "Mama."

"What is it?"

"Are you mad?"

She turns to look at him, but his gaze is locked on the cement. "Not at you, honey."

"I didn't mean to hurt him," he whispers, sniffling.

"I know you didn't," Natsuko tells him, kneeling down so she can look at his face. She skims her thumbs carefully under his eyes to wipe away the tears that are gathered there. "Sit down with me, ok?"

He complies hesitantly. She slides an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close to her. Presses her lips to his temple. "Wanna tell me what happened?"

"She already told you what happened."

"Maybe I want to hear it from you," she murmurs softly.

He wipes his eyes with more aggression than Natsuko had and releases a hiccup. "H-he said mean things about you and Onii-chan."

Natsuko's eyes widen slightly. She feels her heart drop somewhere near her feet, and her chest suddenly feels tight. He fought over her and Yamato? "Then what happened?"

"I told him to take it back," Takeru continues shakily. "He said he wouldn't. He… he just kept saying things, Mama, _bad_ things. And I—I dunno, I just got so mad… he shouldn't talk about you or Nii-chan like that!" He buries his head in her shoulder. "I—I pushed him, and I didn't think it was that hard, at first. But he hit his head on the table, and S-Suzuki-sensei saw it. K-Kazu just got up—he threw a b-book at me." A small hand reaches up to cup his bruised cheek, and he hiccups again. "A-and all the sudden, sensei was yelling at us… and then they called you. I'm so sorry, Mama. I'm so sorry."

She squeezes him tenderly. "No, no, no, don't be sorry, baby," she says quietly in his hair. "It's ok to be angry. It's part of being human." She pauses, soothing his hair back. Then: "Hey, Takeru."

"What?"

"Don't worry about what people say about me. Just walk away next time, ok?"

Her son swallows quiveringly. "That lady said mean things to me and you hit her."

Right. Natsuko expels a nervous laugh. "I'm not a good example."

"Onii-chan told me if anyone ever gives me trouble, just walk away, too," he mumbles and sniffs again. "I didn't do that. Do you think he'll be mad?"

"Of course not," Natsuko replies without hesitation. "He would be proud. And your father would be, too."

She hadn't meant to say the second part aloud. It kind of came out on instinct. But in her heart, she knows it's true. Hiroaki isn't particularly fond of violence, she knows. But when it comes to their sons, his viewpoint changes entirely. She can picture the first time Yamato came home with a bruise: Hiroaki swooped him up in a hug, laughing heartily. ("Our son's a fighter, Nat," he'd exclaimed when she tried to be the voice of reason.)

She pushes down the pain that accompanies the memory. Wonders briefly if he'll get to see Takeru before his cuts and bruises heal. She'll tell him about what happened, but it's a bit of a drive, and they've both been working a lot. It's getting harder and harder to schedule time for Yamato and Takeru to visit each other.

Of course, she isn't going to tell any of this to Takeru. Not now. But it doesn't look like she needs to.

"You really think so?" His starts to smile. "You think Daddy would be proud of me?"

"That you defended your brother? Yes."

He's on his feet instantly. "Oh, I can't wait to show him!"

"Oh, hold on. That's not what I meant," she says hurriedly, reaching out to grab his arm before he can run off. He laughs when she misses, and she echoes it without even thinking. "Hey, come back here. We gotta get you home so I can put some more ice on your face."

She lifts him up then (he's quite small for a six-year-old), steadies him, and places another kiss on his forehead, careful of his bruise. Finally makes her way to her car again, but this time, Takeru is giggling.

It doesn't matter that he's supposed to be in trouble. She'll worry about his suspension later. Hearing him laugh is enough to erase the anger she feels toward his school and Hirokazu's mother. It's enough to erase the hurt she feels seeing the marks on her baby's face.

She loves hearing Takeru laugh.


	4. Lonely

**a/n:** This idea sounded better in my head than when I wrote it out, but I'll post it anyway. Hopefully, it's not too weird? Maybe? Both Yamato and Takeru seem like shy, lonely kids, and becoming Chosen Children kind of pulled both of them out of their shells (something that's more obvious in Yamato than Takeru, I think). Enjoy and thank you for all your feedback!

* * *

 **setting:** 1997, pre-Adventure

* * *

 **04 || Lonely**

Yamato hasn't seen Takeru in almost two months. He knows that no one is to blame—his parents both work full-time, he and Takeru have school, and Takeru doesn't live in Odaiba. He knows Mom and Dad try. But he can't help but feel angry because he's missing so much of his little brother's life, and he hates it.

He tries not to think about it some days. School is an easy distraction. There's always something for him to do. Classwork. Projects. But once he gets home, he's greeted by an empty apartment. He hates that, too.

His father is off on weekends. He has definitely gotten better over the years. But on weekdays, he doesn't come home until seven or eight, and sometimes the station asks him to work Saturdays. Dad almost always agrees.

This Saturday, unfortunately, is one of them. He watches moodily as his father scrambles around, trying to find his coat and his tie. Yamato knows both of them are sitting underneath the newspaper in his new recliner, but he doesn't say a word. Wonders (perhaps childishly) how long it will take Dad to figure it out.

A knock, timid and quiet, filters through the apartment just as Dad finishes his last sip of coffee. His head snaps up, distracted, and Yamato takes this as his cue to answer it. Feels his heart thump wildly in his chest when his mother smiles at him—a smile which seems happy until he realizes that it does not meet her eyes. She looks sad and tired. He doesn't have much time to ponder over it because he's getting the wind kicked out of him in seconds.

He suddenly feels less moody.

"Onii-chan!"

"H-hey, Teek," he says instantly, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. A grunt slips past his lips as he heaves his brother upward, noticing how tight Takeru's grip is the moment his little brother's arms thread around his neck. For such a small kid, he's got a lot of strength.

"I'm so happy to see—oh, hi, Daddy!"

Their father's reaction is delayed. He's finally found his tie, Yamato realizes, and he's making his way toward the door with an awkward smile on his face. Takeru's small hands extend upward as he nears them, and before he knows it, Takeru is being lifted out of his arms.

"Hi, buddy."

Takeru's laughter echoes in the doorway, and it's innocent and musical. Yamato briefly glances back at his mom, and his smile falters when he sees the sad look in her eyes is still there. He lets her reach out and ruffle his hair.

"I thought you said you were off today," she says after a moment's pause, shifting her weight slightly.

"I… I was," his dad replies shortly, kneeling down slightly to put Takeru back on the ground. "But the station called and—"

She nods curtly. "I see. Are you leaving soon?"

"Yes. But only for an hour. Two, at the most." He looks at Yamato as he adds the last part, who makes a point of being preoccupied by Takeru. He can tell his mother wants to say something else, but whatever is going through her mind soon becomes hidden as she forces another smile.

"Be good for your brother and dad," she says as she looks down at Takeru. "I'll be back Monday night, ok?"

"Ok," Takeru chirps and rushes over to kiss her on the cheek. She laughs and returns the gesture, and after a few hesitant seconds, she reaches for Yamato's arm.

The hug is brief, but warm, nonetheless. She places a kiss on the top of his head and she whispers, "Have a good weekend, honey. I love you."

"Love you too," he says, a tad bit awkwardly. He and his father aren't verbal people, so hearing the words is kind of strange. His heart flutters anyway.

She leaves within the next few minutes. Takeru looks at Yamato excitedly and pulls at his arm, and it comes to his attention that his little brother is wearing a backpack. "Nii-chan, do you want to see my drawing?"

"Course I do," he says without hesitation.

"You wanna see, too, Daddy?"

His father offers a small smile, having turned around to continue getting ready for work. He ruffles Takeru's hair in a similar fashion that his mom had done to Yamato. "I've gotta go right now, buddy, but I promise I'll look at it when I get back, ok?"

Takeru tilts his head and looks disappointed, but only for a second. He glances back at Yamato. "C'mon, c'mon!"

He's dragged into his somewhat messy room without further delay. Takeru hurries to unzip his pack, digging through clothes and toiletries which Mom must have put in there for him, and soon pulls out a folder.

Yamato's got to admit, Takeru has a bit of a wild imagination. He spends the next few minutes trying to guess what Takeru had drawn. He's wrong each time, but his brother doesn't seem to mind. His face lights up excitedly as he launches into an explanation of each one, only pausing when their father peeks his head in to bid them goodbye.

"...and this one—hey, Onii-chan, what do you want to do today?"

He chuckles. Takeru always acts as if they've never been apart, and it's refreshing. "I dunno, Teek. What do you want to do?"

He looks around slowly and Yamato can picture little gears turning in his brother's head. After a few moments, he pulls at Yamato's hand and says, "I wanna hear you play!"

He agrees, still chuckling, but it takes him a while to find his harmonica. He hasn't touched it in a few weeks and is probably a little dusty. Looks underneath stray papers from school and dirty clothes. (A part of him is ashamed that Takeru has to see this mess; he hasn't cleaned up in a while. Takeru either doesn't care or doesn't notice.) Once he does find it, though, the two brothers cuddle up on Yamato's bed, leaning against the wall. Yamato takes a moment to remember what note to start on.

The melody is soft and soothing. He doesn't remember where he learned it—just remembers hearing it somewhere years ago. Maybe from his mom. She's the one who gave him the harmonica in the first place, after all. Right after Takeru was born. But that was over six years ago—he doesn't remember if she ever played it. The tune is etched in his memory nonetheless, and he plays and plays until he's not anymore, and Takeru looks at him with confused, half-lidded eyes. The kid was dozing.

"Why did you stop, Nii-chan?"

He places the instrument on the thin mattress underneath him, shrugging. Pats his brother's head gently. "No reason." He shifts slightly but Takeru doesn't seem disturbed. "You wanna know what a little birdie told me?"

"Hmm?"

"My kid brother got suspended for getting in a fight," he says quietly, poking Takeru's shoulder.

Takeru blinks slowly as though dragging himself out of the warm embrace of sleep. It makes Yamato wonder how much rest he got the previous night. Then, a tired but sheepish grin breaks out on his face. "Was it Mama?"

"Actually, it was Dad."

"It was a few weeks ago," Takeru says, his smile unwavering. "No biggie. Mama wasn't mad about it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I thought he was your friend."

"I don't really have a lot of friends in school," Takeru admits with a shrug. "They think I'm a little weird."

He says it so easily, like it doesn't bother him. Like it's not a big deal. Yamato's grin slowly fades and he looks at Takeru with concern. "Why is that?"

"I don't know. There's a few kids that talk to me, but not all the time." He shrugs again nonchalantly and then pulls on his arm excitedly. His eyes are shining now with delight, all traces of fatigue long gone. "But it's ok! I have you, Nii-chan. That's all that matters to me."

Yamato leans back with his hands crossed behind his head. "You know what I think, Teek?"

"What?"

"They're jealous of you."

Takeru tilts his head in confusion. "Why would they be jealous?"

"Because you're destined to do great things," he answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

His eyes widen and he laughs happily. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says. "And one day you'll have friends who would do anything for you."

"What about you, Nii-chan?"

"What about me?"

"Are your friends jealous of you?" He sits up excitedly. "I bet you have lots of friends huh? You're so cool."

A pause. Yamato's heart abruptly constricts, and his stomach feels hollow. At first, he doesn't know why. Then… then, all of the sudden he has to ask himself does… does he even _have_ friends?

In his head, he pictures himself on school days, sitting alone in the corner of the classroom. Sitting alone at lunch. Keeping to himself. Watching his classmates play at recess, running around and around and he's too shy to ask if he can join. So he plays by himself, every day, wondering why he feels so empty inside.

Wondering why the emptiness always turns into anger.

Wondering if he should try harder.

Wondering if he should open up more.

No, he doesn't have friends. Takeru's the only one he has, and though Takeru seems content with the idea, Yamato can't ignore the heavy feeling of loneliness swimming in his chest. His brother can only stay for a few days. Dad's supposed to be back soon, but come Monday, he'll have to work again. It won't be long until he's all by himself. Again.

"Y-yeah," he chokes out when he notices Takeru is still staring at him expectantly. "Maybe they're jealous, too."

Takeru frowns upon hearing the sudden change in his tone. "What's wrong?"

"What makes you think there's something wrong?"

"Your eyes," he whispers, his own eyes filling with sorrow. "They're sad. Mama gets that look, too, sometimes." Then, slowly: "You don't have many friends, either, do you Nii-chan?"

"I guess not," he says, with a laugh that's watery and hollow. "But maybe someday."

"Someday," Takeru repeats. He smiles again: a hopeful, young smile that's contagious enough to make Yamato return the gesture. Yamato briefly wonders how he can switch from on the brink of tears to happy in just a few seconds. "We just gotta wait, then, right? I'd rather wait for a real friend than have a bunch of fake ones. Besides," he adds, eyes shining again, "I said I'd always be your friend, Nii-chan! So don't be sad."

Yamato leans back against his wall again, picking up his harmonica. Pushes all of his negative thoughts down, down, down, until it's buried treasure. "C'mere, Teek."

He does. Yamato squeezes him tightly, thankful for his little brother even if he only gets a few days with him. He really means it when he says Takeru's destined for something great. He's like a warm candle in a dark room; a whisper of hope in the bleakest of moments. And maybe Takeru is right—Yamato will meet those friends, too.

Someday.


	5. Headphones

**a/n:** Ch 21 of HoM is about halfway done and should be up in a few days, but I needed a little bit of fluff since I've written all angst lately. Also, just because this is a Takaishida collection doesn't mean I can't include the Yagami siblings! Enjoy. (Side note: the idea of Takeru having Yamato's headphones actually stems from a scene in my one-shot **Sleeves**.)

* * *

 **setting:** 2003, post-02

* * *

 **05 || Headphones**

It's one of those days when Takeru stays inside his head.

He's sitting cross-legged on Hikari's bed, holding a book but not really focusing on the words in it. Patamon is resting on his shoulder and Hikari is seated next to him with a purring Tailmon cuddled in her lap. They've been quiet for at least twenty minutes.

She doesn't seem to mind his silence—or maybe she's lost in her own thoughts as well. He's also got headphones on, but they're old and only one of the cuffs works, so if she speaks, he'll hear her.

He looks over at her. She's looking at her camera, and there's a hint of a smile curving her lips. He distantly remembers that she spent part of Friday night taking pictures in the digital world, and she's probably deciding which ones are worth keeping.

Looks back at his book. Blinks a few times to regain focus, and he's about halfway down the page when Hikari's bedroom door opens.

All four of them look up, and Taichi's peeking his head in with a grin that says he's getting ready to tease one of them.

"Hiding away, are we?" He pushes the door open loudly and makes his way inside, and his attire tells Takeru that he's just returned from soccer practice. "You're both going to turn into hermits one day."

Even though Taichi's kidding, this earns a whisper of a smile from the blond, and a roll of the eyes from Hikari. They're both twelve (Hikari's almost thirteen—she's got a good seven months on Takeru), but Taichi is Taichi, and he likes to pick on them from time to time. Neither of them are bothered by it.

Hikari lifts herself off the bed, careful not to hit her head on the top bunk, and when she nears her brother, her face scrunches up. "Nii-san, go take a bath."

"She's right. You stink," Tailmon says, seemingly upset that Hikari had moved her. She doesn't hesitate to crawl into Takeru's lap to make up for the lack of warmth, curling up by his hip. She's still purring. (Takeru hates to admit it, but he has to resist the urge to pet her.)

Taichi huffs. Takeru looks up from Tailmon when he hears Hikari squeal and sees that her older brother, covered in sweat and grass stains, is swooping her in a giant hug.

" _Onii-san_ —!"

"Do I stink now, sis? Huh?"

This time, Hikari is giggling. Her cheeks are flushed but she doesn't look angry. "Nii-san, I'm serious. You need to take a bath."

"Oh, look, your so-called 'friend' is laughing at you. Friends don't laugh at each other, do they? C'mere, Takeru, you wanna a hug, too?"

Oh, boy. Takeru rolls his eyes, but Taichi's already heading toward him. He makes a move to get out of the way but quickly remembers that Patamon and Tailmon are pretty much holding him in place. Neither of the digimon even make an attempt to get off him, so when Taichi ducks underneath the top bunk to get to him, he has no choice but to let the older boy tackle him.

At first, he thinks it's funny. Laughter spews from his lips. Taichi's three years older, so he's got at least a foot on him. Even though this might seem intimidating, he knows Hikari's brother is kind of a teddy bear. But Takeru thinks he's due for a shower, too. (He doesn't dare admit this out loud, however. It's bad enough that he's being engulfed by a stinky Taichi; he doesn't want to make it worse.)

"Taichi, would you get off my brother and get changed?"

Takeru recognizes his brother's voice instantly and has to lift his head over Taichi's to see Yamato's face. He looks exasperated. "We have a project due tomorrow morning, you know."

"Y-yeah, please move, he's c-crushing me—!" Patamon's voice squeaks from somewhere behind Takeru, and it's then that he realizes that Taichi knocked the little guy off his shoulder. Tailmon had slithered her way out almost immediately, but the orange digimon is still trapped.

"Nii-san, see, you're hurting poor Patamon," the chosen of Light exclaims.

"Ok, ok, I'm coming," the fifteen-year-old says after several long moments and sighs dramatically as he heaves himself upward. Takeru chuckles when he hits his head.

Then. Then there's a loud _crack._

Takeru stills. His mp3 at some point had slipped out of his pocket, and hands lift to his head immediately. Feels his heart flutter when he notices that his headphones are no longer there. It doesn't take him but a second to realize what happened.

Immediately, Taichi is cursing. "Shit, Takeru, these are yours, aren't they?"

Yep. There are his headphones, in two different pieces.

Takeru frowns and picks them up. For a split second, he's angry. But the feeling passes quickly and he shrugs. Tosses them back onto Hikari's bunk. "They were Onii-san's."

At this, Yamato peeks his head around. Taichi is already back on his feet, looking sheepish. He glances between the two brothers. "Sorry, man. I was just kidding around."

Yamato's eyes widen slightly. "Damn, Teek, you still have those? I got them when you were _three_."

Again, Takeru shrugs. He knows how old they are. Yamato hadn't meant to, but he'd left them there during a visit after their parents split. He was seven at the time, and Yamato was almost eleven. Takeru tried returning them, but his brother never accepted them. So here he is, five years later, still using them.

"I guess it's time for me to get new ones, huh?" he says, smiling up at them. He moves over slightly as Patamon comes out from behind him, pink in the cheeks, and automatic instinct is to pet the fur behind the digimon's wings. "They don't work very well anyway."

Hikari comes up from behind her brother and crawls back onto the bed. "I guess that's your cue to get out of here before you break something else, Nii-san."

She says it good-naturedly, but Taichi's expression remains apologetic. His laughter comes out nervously. "I guess you're right, Hika. I'll see you tonight."

"That is if we get this done by tonight," Yamato deadpans. "Which we better. I canceled band practice for this project." Then he faces Takeru, who is now trying to quiet a hungry Patamon. "Don't worry about those, kiddo. Like I said, I didn't know you still had 'em."

He laughs and rolls his eyes. "Good luck on your project, Onii-san."

Taichi grabs a set of clothes to change into and both of their brothers head out of the room. Tailmon huffs before deciding to sit between the two Chosen, but this time, she isn't purring. "I liked the peace and quiet, thank you very much."

Hikari chuckles. Takeru does, too, because her laughter is contagious. He realizes that Taichi also bent some of the pages in his book, and he closes it in an attempt to get them to flatten out again. Patamon once again mumbles something about being hungry.

"If you're really wanting food," Hikari says after a moment, "Mom is cooking liver sticks tonight."

Patamon shudders. "Never mind."

They laugh, and Takeru reaches over to throw the broken headphones in the trash bin next to Hikari's bed. He sighs inwardly, and Hikari says, "Nii-san is going to apologize to you for the next week and a half, you know."

"It's not a big deal," Takeru says because it really isn't. They're just headphones.

"Would you have really kept them for all these years if they didn't mean something to you?"

At that, Takeru's smile falls. Looks at his hands. Hikari picks up on this instantly, her eyes softening. He sighs out loud this time, and explains quietly, "My parents fought a lot when I was a kid. Sometimes it would keep Nii-san and me up for hours, just hearing them yell back and forth. He always let me listen to music to block out the noise so I could sleep." He shrugs for the third time and offers another grin. "But they're not in good shape anymore, so really, Taichi was doing me a favor."

It takes a few seconds, but Hikari returns the gesture. Reaches over to stroke Tailmon's fur. "Yamato is really sweet, huh?"

"Don't let him hear you say that," Takeru replies. "He's got a reputation, you know."

Hikari giggles and shakes her head in exasperation. "So…"

"So."

"I'm hungry," Patamon says.

They break into another round of laughter.

* * *

It's Monday. Takeru walks into his first period slowly, not really in the mood to be awake. Some days he's a morning person, and some days he just wants to roll over and go back to sleep. Today, it's the latter.

As he's making his way toward his assigned seat, a glimpse of chestnut brown hair catches his eye. He looks over, and his brows inch upward when he sees Hikari grinning wide at him.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" he asks, half wanting to smile, and half wondering what she's been up to.

He hadn't noticed that she was holding something behind her back, but suddenly, she's thrusting a box into his hands. "Nii-san got you something."

He looks down at curiously. Flips the box over. Inspects it for a few moments.

Hikari rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "He's not good at wrapping things, ok? Just open it."

He does, unable to quiet the laugh that crawls up his throat. It takes a few minutes to get the tape off and there are more layers of wrapping paper than necessary, but once everything is removed, he blinks.

A new pair of headphones. They aren't like the ones Yamato gave him (much more modern, he notices immediately), but they look cool. Cool enough to cost more than he would be able to pay, Takeru thinks. The box even says, 'Noise Cancelling.'

"He really didn't have to do this."

"He wanted to," Hikari says. Then, after a pause: "Your brother helped him out, though. They went to a CD shop yesterday and…" Her smile is back. "Do you like them?"

He studies the box some more and he can't help but grin. "Yeah, they're awesome. I just." He stops. "They must have been expensive."

"Don't worry about that." She taps his arm. "You're worth it, anyway. But he'll want to know that you like them, so don't forget to shoot him a message."

Their class is about to start, but he doesn't care. Slips them over his head. They're comfortable, and he debates on whether or not he should test the sound, but sensei walks in just as the thought crosses his mind, so he'll have to wait. Lets them rest around his neck. "These are so cool."

Hikari is beaming. Even he can't stop grinning now, and maybe that's a little pathetic because they're _headphones_ , but his eyes are shining anyway. Thinks to himself that Monday won't be so bad after all.


	6. Drift

**a/n:** Ok, so. Uhhh. I'm sorry for the lack of updates on this story. Whoopsie. But heh heh, here I am! Only because of **Green Spaghetti.** And fair warning: This is unedited. And there is cheese up ahead. Probably the cheesiest thing I've _ever_ written, honestly. Lots of cheese. Because I love cheese. Yes.

* * *

 **setting:** 2007; post-02, kind of ignores tri, except for the fact that Knife of Day is a thing.

* * *

 **06 || Drift**

Takeru does not want to open his eyes.

It's past ten in the morning, and on any other weekend, Takeru would have been out of bed before nine. Teenagers like to sleep in, sure. Takeru? Not so much. While Mom is usually quiet in the mornings, Takeru isn't the heavy sleeper he was as a child, so any type of noise will wake him up. Perhaps he can place blame the digital world where getting a full night's rest was nearly impossible. Or maybe he's so used to getting up early for school that his body has trained itself to be awake before Takeru wants to be.

So he's been lying in his bed for almost two and a half hours now, awake, but lacking the motivation to leave the comfort of his blankets. It's warm, and he's sure that once he moves, that warmth will leave. But staying curled up in his covers isn't going to help his sour mood. In fact, it's just making him feel worse.

With a sigh, Takeru rolls over and pushes himself up on his elbows. Sulking isn't really his thing, anyway. It's what Yamato does.

Yamato.

Takeru frowns and without even thinking, he settles back on his mattress. Pulls his blankets close. He shouldn't be upset, he knows. It's probably a dumb thing to be upset about. But tears prick at his eyes anyway, and he has to draw in several slow breaths in order to get the sensation to fade. Yamato isn't here.

Knife of Day is getting ready to travel around Japan. He hasn't heard from Yamato in almost two weeks, and before that, they were clipped conversations over text that Takeru supposed Yamato was too busy to keep going. He hasn't answered his calls or messages. He's never home when Takeru drops by.

The logical part of his brain tells him Yamato is busy. He's an adult, and he's going on _tour_ , doing the thing he loves. It's only natural for his band to take up most of his time—planning a tour does require commitment. And Takeru should be happy for his brother. Music is his passion. He is following his dream.

But following his dream means crushing Takeru's, and even though that's selfish of Takeru to think about, he can't help it. Takeru wants his family, and he wants them here, together. His mom, however, is always picking up extra shifts; and his dad has put most of his time toward the station.

He knows—always has—that it is wishful thinking for his parents to rekindle the relationship they had when Takeru and Yamato were young. They aren't the same people they used to be. But Takeru moved to Odaiba almost five years ago, and after Belialvamdemon was defeated, he and Yamato started to spend more time together. At least once every two weeks, Takeru would come over, or vice versa.

This meant that he saw their father more often as well, and Yamato started to warm up toward their mother. He isn't exactly sure what caused them to drift apart since it was so long ago, but he does know that Mom's personality bloomed once Yamato started coming over more often.

Her smile is fuller. Her eyes are happier. And Takeru loves seeing her glow. It's like she had long ago been cut in two, and has finally become whole again. Years of late night talks, of Yamato's amazing cooking, of laughing and teasing, of watching Yamato progress in his music... it had been so wonderful. Takeru couldn't express how happy he was to see his family finally lessen the gap that had grown between them over time.

Then his brother graduated high school, and in the span of a year, there's been a noticeable shift. Takeru still spends time with their dad, sure. But it isn't the same with Yamato bouncing between band practice and home every other night. Talking to Dad somehow seems more awkward without his older brother around. Spare time has become scarce. Knife of Day is getting more popular. He's looking into colleges every now and then, but Takeru knows he can't decide whether or not he wants to go to school and manage the band at the same time, or do one or the other. It's been stressful.

He's not angry, per se. People grow up. People make and follow their own paths. People drift apart. Takeru knows this, and he wants to accept it. Refusing to let him go is childish. But it hurts to think about how Yamato has seemed to outgrow him. Because when Yamato leaves, Takeru knows it's going to be a long time before he returns—just like before, just like all those years ago when they were children—and he's going to miss him. A lot.

Takeru swallows and wipes at his eyes when his cell phone buzzes somewhere close to him. Yamato has been so excited for this, and here Takeru is, unable to bring himself to share his enthusiasm. Surely Yamato would be happy for _him_ if their roles were reversed. This is so dumb.

He pulls up the text, which is from Hikari: _Hey, are we still up for today?_

Right. Takeru sighs and looks at his clock. He's supposed to be there by noon, and it's almost ten-thirty. It's a half-hour walk to Hikari's. He's due for a shower. He needs to get out of bed.

Part of him wants to take a raincheck. Except that would cause her to worry, and Takeru doesn't like to worry Hikari. So he sucks in a shaky breath, blinks hard, and types a quick reply to his best friend. Then he drags himself out of bed so he can prepare for the day.

Sulking really isn't his thing.

* * *

When Takeru ascends the staircase to Hikari's apartment, she is already waiting outside her door, arms resting over the railing of the balcony, staring off into the city. She's wearing a yellow skirt that reaches just above her knees, and long-sleeved pink and white tee. Suitable for the crisp weather.

"Hey, Hikari," he says as he reaches the top of the stairs.

Hikari turns so she is facing him, and there is a soft smile on the face. Her fingers dance in a wave. "Hi, Takeru."

"So, are you going to tell me where we're going?"

Her smile becomes mischievous. "Where is the fun in that?"

He rolls his eyes, but not out of annoyance. It's amusing how easily she can switch between welcoming and sincere to deviously secretive. But his grin doesn't seem to be as cheerful as hers, because her entire expression falters in seconds. "Are you ok?"

He shrugs. "I slept in later than usual. So, are you going to lead the way, then?"

She grabs his wrist and tugs, and then they're going down the staircase again, and her laughter is bright like the sun shining down on them with the promise of a warm day. "Let's go."

* * *

"Hikari."

"Yeah?"

"Why are we at Onii-san's?"

"I just thought maybe you'd want to see your dad today," she says as if it's obvious, and even though she isn't facing him, he can hear a hint of a grin in her voice.

"I thought the station called him in," Takeru says because it's true. His dad had told him so last night.

Hikari pauses. She turns to meet his gaze after a small moment, and then she suggests, "Well, why don't you knock and find out?"

His brows shoot upward. He's got a key, so knocking isn't really necessary. And being at Yamato's only brings up thoughts he tried to push away earlier, and he doesn't want to have another crying spell. His throat is already starting to close up as he looks at the door resting in front of them.

Hikari extends an arm to do it for him. Takeru chews the inside of his lip, thinking about how stupid it is for him to _still_ feel so upset, but the door opens before his mind can wander.

He blinks when his dad's face stares back at him. His expression is still quizzical as he accuses, "You said you had to work."

Dad's face automatically becomes sheepish and he rubs the back of his neck nervously. "Yes! I do. Erm. I did. Well, I... um." He fumbles with the doorknob, looking anywhere but at Takeru's face. Finally, an embarrassed smile graces his face and his shoulders slump slightly. "Gah, you caught me, son. I lied."

Takeru swallows, feeling his heart clench. Is his company so unappealing that his father had to come up with an excuse not to spend time with him? The thought makes him want to turn and run home—except that would make him feel more pathetic. It's bad enough that Yamato is too busy for him; he can't choke on the idea that his own _dad_ lied to him simply because he didn't want to be around him.

"Oh," is all that comes out after a time, and he hopes he doesn't sound too hurt because the last thing he wants is to guilt trip his father.

He can sense Hikari's gaze on him. Takeru turns his head slightly, and his eyes meet Hikari's rusty-brown ones for the second time. There's something in her expression that he can't recognize, but it's gone before he can dwell on it. Hikari's face brightens and her lips curve into a smile.

"May we come in, Ishida-san?"

"Of course, of course," his dad hurries to say, widening the door so they can enter. Hikari goes first, noticeably less hesitant than Takeru, and after slipping off their shoes, Takeru can only blink again in surprise.

The flat is tidier than he remembers. The table is less cluttered, but it soon comes to his attention that all of his father's papers have just been moved to the kitchen counter. The dishes are resting in the rack to dry. The couch—after years of awkwardly standing because they'd run out of chairs, his father had set about looking for a sofa—has been pushed back a little so there is more room to walk without getting stuck.

"You've been cleaning," he says absentmindedly as he continues to look around.

Dad expels an awkward laugh, leaning over to pick up a few stray shirts that somehow ended up on the floor. "In theory."

"It looks nice," Hikari comments, her smile widening. Takeru shoots her a puzzled look, but she either ignores it or doesn't notice. Hikari's a very attentive person; knowing this fact, Takeru's confusion only grows. "Say, Ishida-san?"

"Hmm?" is the gruff response as Takeru's father goes about trying to wipe off the dust that has gathered on the television with his hand. It isn't a very effective method—something his dad soon realizes as he wipes his hand on his jeans. When Hikari doesn't respond, he asks, "What?"

"I just..." She peeks her head around the corner curiously. "Is Yamato home?"

"Uhm," his father starts, his eyes wandering to Yamato's bedroom door. Then they fall upon Takeru.

Is—is that pity? Takeru's hands curl into fists inside his pockets. Great. Takeru feels shame bubble somewhere in his body. He hurries to think of something to do to—laugh, smile, _something_ that will erase the sympathetic look that crawls across his father's features. Something to cover up the fact that he so desperately wants to go back home and crawl into bed. He doesn't want Dad to know how upset he is—especially over something so insignificant—but he definitely doesn't want to upset _him._

 _Stop being stupid,_ he tells himself. _Get over it and say something, damn it._

Before he can think of anything, Dad's expression turns grim. "He um, he went out. But uh..." He rakes a hand through his hair, reminding Takeru that his father isn't the best at making conversation. Or knowing what to do when he has guests. He clears his throat. "Take a seat. Actually, wait. Takeru"—he circles around the table, making his way toward the fridge—"can you go into your brother's room and get the coasters?"

"Sure," Takeru replies, probably too quickly. He walks toward Yamato's room without hesitation, thankful for the distraction.

Except when he opens the door, Yamato's face is the first thing he sees.

His first instinct is to slam the door shut and turn away, twisting the doorknob and gripping it tightly so Yamato can't open it from the other side. No. He doesn't want to talk to Yamato right now. Yamato is the reason he's so upset. Looking at him only reminds him of how soon he's going to leave. As much as he hates to admit it, it's much easier to sulk alone in his room than it is to fake enthusiasm about his brother _leaving for over a year to travel across the country_ —

"Takeru?"

He blinks back tears, and then immediately notices that his actions have captured the attention of his father and best friend. Hastily, he rips his gaze away, inhaling quietly in hopes that it will stop his nose from burning. He is _not_ going to cry in front of Hikari. He is _not_ going to cry in front of his own father.

 _It's fine,_ Takeru's brain murmurs. _It's not a big deal. It's fine._ I'm _fine._

Yamato says on the other side of the door: "Takeru... hey, Teek. Let me out. Please?"

Reluctantly, Takeru releases the doorknob. He turns again so his body is facing his brother's room, but he keeps his gaze on the floor.

Very slowly, Yamato opens the door. Takeru clears his throat and speaks in a voice that's barely above a whisper, "He said you went out."

"I did," Yamato answers, and there's a hint of a grin in his voice. "...this morning."

Takeru looks at him finally, and Yamato's expression crumbles. Takeru hurries to paint on something that doesn't say, "I'm about to cry." He is _sixteen_ , damn it. Sixteen-year-olds don't cry over missing their brothers. Right? Right. He needs to smile. _Smile_. He needs to be happy that Yamato's going on tour.

But then he sees the phone in Yamato's hand, and all he can think about is all the calls and messages that have gone unanswered, and his resolve breaks just a little more.

"I'm sorry," Yamato says immediately upon noticing where Takeru's gaze had drifted to. When Takeru starts to turn away again, Yamato grips his shoulders. "Takeru, I'm really sorry. Just, hey, hear me out, ok?"

"It's ok," he says before Yamato can continue. "I, um, I know you've been busy... you've got your band, and the tour—"

His voice breaks here, and he fights away from his older brother's grip because he really doesn't want to cry in front of the three people whom he thinks so highly of. Pathetic, he thinks. They'll think he's pathetic if the tears break loose. He needs to get out of here.

"I should've called you back," Yamato tells him, which only makes him want to cry more. "I'm sorry. I just, god, Teek, c'mere."

He's enveloped in a tight embrace before he can respond, and Yamato doesn't let him go even when he starts struggling. His brother continues, "I kept meaning to call, but I kept getting distracted with the band and—and I know that doesn't excuse the messages, but... I'm sorry, Takeru. But hey—"

"L-let me go," Takeru interrupts, but Yamato refuses to obey. "Nii-san, _please_ —"

There's a knock on the door. Takeru expels a watery, exasperated sigh. Great. More people to see him fall to pieces for childish reasons. Yamato is surprised by the sudden noise, and Takeru takes this moment to slide out of Yamato's grip. But when he traverses the flat and yanks the door open with every intention of slipping past whoever is there and running off, he realizes more than one person is blocking the way. There's no hope for escape.

"Hey, Tak—oh. What's wrong?"

Takeru swallows and takes another deep breath, avoiding Taichi's baffled eyes and Sora's concerned look. What is everyone doing here? "Um, nothing. Excuse me, please—"

"Wait," Sora says, grabbing his wrist to hold him in place. Then her gaze wanders to Yamato. "Did you tell him?"

That stops Takeru cold. He looks back at Yamato, very confused. "Tell me what?"

Hikari walks up to him slowly, resting a hand on his own and trying to coax Takeru to come back inside. Her smile no longer bleeds mischief; instead, it is sad and gentle. "Let Yamato finish, Takeru."

Takeru deflates, knowing he doesn't have a choice. Making a scene is the last thing he wants to do. Yamato frowns slightly, his eyes apologetic. "I was going to say, we decided not to go on tour."

Takeru's heart stutters in his chest. Relief flutters through him, and then he feels guilty for feeling such an emotion. "Why?"

"We aren't really ready," Yamato admits, with a sheepish chuckle. "There's a lot of things we didn't consider when we thought about going on tour—how much money it would take, the time, all the planning... there's a lot of responsibility and commitment, and we'd be gone for so long. It was a lot more than we expected."

Takeru stares at him, almost dumbfounded. He left uncertain on what to say or what to do. But then Yamato adds, "Don't get me wrong, a tour would be a wonderful thing for the band. It would be fun, and we'd meet so many fans. Maybe we will go in the future, just... not yet. We want to be a little more solid before we make big decisions like that. And we haven't made anything public, so it's not like we'll be refunding any tickets or anything." A pause. A faint grin touches Yamato's lips again. "Besides, how am I supposed to be away from my little bro for that long?"

He probably says it to lighten the mood. Maybe to make Takeru feel better. For a second, it makes Takeru feel like a child. But he's still speechless, and everyone else isn't saying anything, which isn't helping the situation. It's hard to sift through so many emotions when he has an audience.

"I'm sorry I pushed you away, Teek," he says softly. "You have every right to be upset. And you have every right to be angry. I just. I guess I got so caught up in my music that I started to lose track of everything else."

Hikari's still grasping his hand, and she offers a gentle squeeze. Takeru tenses slightly because he wants to be angry. He wants to be angry for so many things—for feeling so upset in the first place. For allowing himself to be hurt this deeply by his brother's absence, even when the back of his mind tells him he can't hold onto Yamato forever. For being so easily tossed aside, and by his family, no less, even though they had reasons. For being dramatic about it.

But Yamato's eyes are pleading, and he can never bring himself to truly be angry at Yamato. Perhaps that is foolish, but they are brothers. They'd spent more time apart than together as children. He doesn't like it when there's tension between them.

"So...you're not going?" he murmurs in a choked voice.

"No, Teek," Yamato says. "I'm not."

He sighs heavily this time, and the sound is accompanied by a shaky laugh. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Takeru takes that in for all it is worth, and then Yamato's grinning. Takeru feels hands on his back, and then he's being playfully shoved, and Taichi says, "Go on, buddy."

This time, when Yamato's arms are around him, Takeru doesn't fight him. He finds himself squeezing his brother tightly, and maybe a few tears break loose. He isn't quite sure because he's laughing, comforted by the fact that his brother really isn't going anywhere. Not for a while, anyway. He doesn't care that people are watching. He doesn't even care that he probably looks like a kid, wrapped up in his sibling's embrace. A year is such a long time.

"I would have missed you," he admits quietly.

"I know, little bro," Yamato replies into his hair. "I would have missed you, too."

It's when Taichi declares he's come bearing gifts that they pull apart. Except, erm, it's Sora that actually has the gifts, which is just a cake—Takeru's favorite kind of cake, he notes—and then Sora's scolding him for ruining their moment. Hikari's giggling, looking happier than before, and his dad is opening the fridge to get juice for everyone.

"You couldn't have told me this over the phone?" Takeru asks finally, looking back at Yamato.

"Well... I wanted to see your face," Yamato replies, chuckling slightly. "And, well, you deserved an apology. I am sorry, Takeru. Really."

Takeru pauses, and for a moment, his gaze lands on Hikari, whose expression soon becomes sheepish. She says quietly, "I could tell you've been upset lately. So, well..."

Yamato slides behind him to take the cake from Sora's hands, and then circles back around so he's in front of Takeru again. He holds the cake up, almost as a peace offering. "Truce?"

Another laugh escapes his lips, and he feels lighter, somehow. Hope blossoms anew in his chest as he looks at his father, who is trying to find plates and spoons for everyone before eventually deciding, maybe he should go to the store to get disposable utensils, but oh, he doesn't have to worry because Sora brought some with her, and—

"Truce," Takeru murmurs.

Takeru tries not to be upset that his mom can't come, but Yamato assures him that he'll make sure she knows. Then he's informed that more of their friends are coming over to find out about the tour Yamato's not going to be attending. And when they do arrive, there is laughter and warmth and Daisuke's throwing an arm around him, grinning wide.

"Sulking isn't really your thing, you know," he teases.

"Yeah," Takeru agrees. "I guess it isn't."


	7. Clean

**a/n:** I'm not dead! I promise!

* * *

 **setting:** 2002, post-02

* * *

 **07 || Clean**

Takeru carefully slips off his shoes, looking around his brother's apartment with a frown. "…Nii-san?"

"Hmm?" comes Yamato's distracted reply.

"You can't have guests here."

This time, Yamato turns to look at Takeru with a baffled expression. "Why's that?"

Takeru looks down at his socks, suddenly a little timid. He isn't trying to be rude. It's just… "Your place is…kind of a mess."

It's true. The table is cluttered with unorganized piles of papers. The dishes are overflowing in the sink and need a good scrub. Laundry—clean or dirty, Takeru doesn't know—is scattered about the floor with no order whatsoever. Everything carries a thin layer of dust, and the floor desperately needs to be swept.

Takeru loves his brother more than anybody in the world, but Yamato doesn't exactly know how (or simply lacks the time) to keep things tidy. And he understands this; Yamato and their father are very busy people.

But in a few hours, their friends are supposed to be here. Takeru feels uncomfortable with the idea of all the people whom he admires—the Chosen he's known since the delicate age of seven, and the ones who joined their team recently—spending their evening in a dusty, messy apartment.

Not that they would say anything impolite. They're all decidedly civil people. Takeru can't imagine Sora or Jou saying, "Um, Yamato? Your house is gross."

Yamato rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, expelling a laugh that's tinged with shame. "I guess you're right. I haven't really had time to clean up."

Takeru's frown remains as he chews the inside of his cheek. They still have a lot of time… "I can help you clean, Nii-san."

Yamato actually looks guilty. "I'm not going to ask you to do that, Teek. It's not your mess."

This time, Takeru shoots him a bright smile. "I don't mind at all. Where should we start?"

(Besides, Takeru is the one who pointed it out in the first place. He's here. It would be rude _not_ to help. And chores get done faster with two people!)

Yamato looks around with a grimace. "I have no idea where we should start."

Takeru pauses, thoughtful. There's an unpleasant smell in the air, and he's pretty sure the kitchen is the culprit. "Let's tackle the dishes first."

"That pile of dishes is scarier than the Dark Masters."

"To be fair," Takeru starts teasingly, his smile becoming mischievous, "you can't even handle watching a horror movie. So what is it, then, that does not scare you?"

"…hush."

* * *

Yamato has to admit that he is very impressed.

In the span of a few hours, Takeru has made his apartment almost unrecognizable. Together, they'd scrubbed, rinsed, dried, and placed all of the dishes in their respective cabinets. But it was Takeru who took it a step further—he swept the floor, dusted and polished the furniture, washed and folded laundry, and wiped down all the counter tops. He'd even spent an extra half hour tidying up the bathroom. Was his bedroom next?

Yamato knows that Takeru is a fairly neat person. A short visit to his apartment proves that. However, that does not mean he expected his brother to _this_ immaculate. In the time it took Yamato to organize the cluster of mail and school assignments on the on the table, Takeru had very thoroughly cleaned the entire front room.

"You're a little bit of a neat freak, aren't you, buddy?" he says, not without affection.

Takeru pokes his head out of the bathroom, holding a half-folded towel, and smiles timidly. "I guess so. Mom works a lot, so when she gets home, she's too tired to clean up. So I do a lot of the cleaning." He chuckles, his smile expanding a fraction. "Since Patamon's in the digital world more than he is on Earth, I've got a lot of time on my hands. I've got to keep myself busy somehow. 'Idle hands are the devils playthings', or so they say."

He says the words lightly, quickly, like it's a joke; but there's this tinge of sadness in his voice, wedged so far underneath his laughter and smile that Yamato almost doesn't catch it. But he does. Harbored underneath that frivolous grin is very real loneliness and sorrow.

Yamato wonders how much time Takeru truly spends alone in his own apartment, and his brain creates answers that he does not like. It's not normal for an eleven-year-old kid to spend so much time by himself. The fact that he's hiding behind humor only deepens Yamato's concerns.

"You know," Yamato starts casually, "if you're ever bored, you can just call me. Sure, I've got my band, but you can come watch the rehearsals if you want."

Takeru looks briefly surprised. "Really?"

"Sure," he goes on. "Then when we get back, I can make supper and we can watch a movie or something."

Takeru's grin falters, but he corrects it almost instantly. His eyes glisten a little. "For real?"

"For real." Yamato shoots him a smile—a smile that's tinged with a certain fondness and warmth reserved only for his younger brother—and walks over to him so he can ruffle Takeru's hair. It's a gesture that tells Takeru that his words are sincere. "Just give me a call when you're bored, 'k?"

 _Give me a call when you feel lonely,_ is what he means, but he doesn't have to say it out loud. The shine in Takeru's eyes tells him he gets it.

His hand moves from Takeru's head to his face, patting his cheek affectionately. "They're gonna be here in about ten minutes. You think the place is ready now?"

Yamato silently deems it worthy, but he wants Takeru to have the final say. Takeru gazes around slowly, tracing every nook and cranny that he can see, and after a few thoughtful moments, he nods with satisfaction and says, "Sure."

"All right." Adds, "Thanks for helping me, Teek."

There are very few words in Yamato's internal dictionary saved for just Takeru, and 'thank you' is one of them. Takeru nods again, still smiling.

"It was fun," he says.

"What a strange kid you are," Yamato teases. "Thinking cleaning is fun."

Takeru rolls his eyes and turns back into the bathroom to put the towel where it belongs. With Takeru distracted, Yamato makes his way toward his bedroom and fetches his d-terminal. Pulls up a new draft, including every Chosen except his brother into the message.

 _Hey_ , he types. _Takeru just spent the last three hours deep cleaning the place because he wanted it to look nice for you guys. Make sure to compliment him. He worked very hard and deserves some recognition. But don't tell him I told you._

 _Yamato._

He hits send, and barely a minute later he receives a reply. Taichi says, _You sound like a proud mom praising her kid, lol._

Yamato frowns and rolls his eyes. _Hush._

 _That's Yamato language for 'I'm embarrassed',_ Miyako says.

"Nii-san?" Takeru is standing at the threshold. "Hikari just told me she's—hey, Nii-san, are you all right? You're a little red."

Yamato clears his throat and slams his d-terminal shut. "I'm fine. What did Hikari tell you?"

"She just said she and Taichi are almost here," he answers, tilting his head to the side inquisitively. But Yamato pays little attention to his curiosity.

Less than ten minutes later, Hikari and Taichi are walking in the door. Sora is next, and she looks genuinely surprised as she glances around. After all, Yamato's sure the last time she was here—less than a week ago—it was...decidedly filthy.

She says, "Wow, Takeru, did you do this? It looks great, hun."

Takeru's face turns a soft shade of pink, but he looks pleased, which makes Yamato smile ever so slightly. "Thanks. Nii-san cleaned up, too."

"Yamato? Clean?" Taichi says with a playful smirk. "You must be mistaken, Takeru. That never happens."

Yamato's smile is gone in an instant. He gets up, asks Sora if she'd like a glass of water, and when she nods her head yes, he makes his way to the kitchen and _accidentally_ bumps into Taichi.

"Oops," he murmurs flatly when Taichi staggers backwards and expels and indignant cry.

"It does look very tidy," Hikari says around a giggle. "You did a good job."

Takeru's beaming. "Thanks, Hika."

The rest of the Chosen arrive minutes apart, and each one of them make a point to notice Takeru's handiwork. Takeru grins shyly with that same glisten in his eyes that tells everyone he appreciates their praise.

Once again, a smug look paints Yamato's face. He doesn't admit it out loud, but seeing Takeru's face light up is the best sight in the world. It's like a sunbeam shining through storm clouds. He illuminates the whole apartment with that grin of his.

Next to him, Mimi whispers, "His smile is infectious, isn't it?"

Yamato nods. "More than he knows."


	8. Coffee

**setting:** late 1995, pre-Adventure

* * *

 **08 || Coffee**

Natsuko hates coffee. She hates the smell, hates the taste, hates the _aftertaste,_ hates the way she always burns her tongue on her first sip. She's never been fond of sugar or any type of creamer, either.

With those thoughts in her mind, she has every intention of throwing the machine in her hands away. Except... she hasn't done that yet. She's been staring at it for at least five minutes, chewing her lip in indecision. The responsible adult inside her tells her to call Hiroaki and ask if he needs it still. The angry child inside her tells her that if he wanted it, he wouldn't have left it.

It will be awkward if she calls him over a dumb thing like this. There's a big chance he won't even answer, anyway. He's most likely getting ready for work. Maybe he's still asleep. Like she should be.

Shuffling. Natsuko's head snaps up to see Takeru making his way toward her, rubbing an eye sleepily.

"It's early," she says softly, "what're you doing up?"

Why does her voice sound so scratchy? No. She isn't going to cry, not over a stupid coffee maker. It doesn't matter if looking at it makes her think of how much she misses Hiroaki. It doesn't matter if looking at it makes her think of how much she misses Yamato. She's _not_ going to cry.

What if Yamato grows up drinking coffee? He's barely seven years old. He doesn't need caffeine. But knowing Hiroaki, he'll—

"You look sad again," Takeru murmurs around a yawn. "Are you ok, Mama?"

"I'm ok," she answers with a smile that is false. "You look tired, baby. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

"I'm not—" No matter how much he denies it, his expression gives it away. That, and the fact that another yawn has swallowed the rest of his declaration. It's barely six-thirty in the morning, anyway. Neither of them need to be up.

With an internal sigh, Natsuko sets the coffee maker back on the counter. She's already unplugged it, ready to toss it, but the tightness in her chest demands for her to keep it where it is. At least for now.

"Are you ok?" Takeru repeats, and this time, he's by her leg, looking at her with big blue eyes that remind her so much of her eldest son.

She leans down to pick him up, and when he's settled in her arms he's pressing his cheek to her shoulder, wrapping tiny arms around his neck.

"I'm ok," she echoes, but the thickness of her voice betrays that statement. "Are you ok?"

"I'm ok." Adds, "I'm still here, Mama. Please don't be sad."

Her throat constricts. She bites her lip, ignoring the burning sensation in her eyes that foretells a spell of tears.

Ten minutes later, she's sitting at the table, cradling a hot glass mug in her hands, with Takeru nestled in her lap. The strong aroma of coffee permeates the whole flat.

She brings the cup to her lips and takes a careful sip.

Burns her tongue.

The tears come in tiny streams. She misses him so much. She hates that she misses him so much.

"Does it taste _that_ bad, Mama?" Takeru asks very quietly, eyes wide with horror and innocuous curiosity.

Natsuko chokes. She convulses with a cough-laugh that shakes loose a few more tears and nods rapidly. "Yeah, baby," she tells him hoarsely, "it does."


End file.
